


Cold Snap

by solomonara



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Don't copy to another site, Gen, NyQuil, Sick Fic, Swearing, brief appearances by Babs Tim Cass Steph and Duke too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 14:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18701716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solomonara/pseuds/solomonara
Summary: Damian catches a cold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as one long piece, but I stuck a chapter break in there just for everyone who's reading this on a phone or tablet and might have trouble saving their place. You're welcome.
> 
> Beta read by [DragonSorceress22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonSorceress22), who prevented this whole thing from just being a single run-on sentence graced by the occasional semi-colon (I may have had. Some caffeine.)

Damian Wayne absolutely hated the cold.

For Damian Wayne, that was fine. For Damian al Ghul, on the other hand, letting the cold get to him was a weakness. And for Robin it was dereliction of duty, and an injury to his pride besides.

Tonight a horrid slush of raindrops pelted from the sky in weather just cold enough to turn the mess to ice once it reached earth. Cars were sheathed in thickening sheets of wavery diamond that would take hours to hack through if anyone wanted to risk the roads. Chunks of the stuff coagulated on ledges and gargoyles and roof corners, plummeting and shattering on the sidewalks below with distressing frequency. The only reason no one was in serious danger of an ice-based concussion was because no one was out on a night like this.

Except people desperate or driven enough. And those who would stop them.

Robin slid to a stop on a rooftop, taking a moment to catch his breath and stick his hands into his armpits in a vain attempt to warm them. He'd faced lower temperatures than this, but everything was wet and the constant bombardment of wind-driven sleet made it feel several degrees colder than it really was. His cape was heavy and lank with the slush, and his gloves were slick with it, making him question his grip.

But Batman was away, and it was Robin's job to guard the city. He would not shirk this responsibility, even if Batman hadn't seen fit to specifically instruct him to keep up with patrol. Even if what he'd actually said before leaving on his trip had been "Don't worry about patrol; the others will call on you if they need you."

Ha. He would show them. How many of _them_ were out tonight? He was certain they'd just done a few cursory passes before retreating.

Robin fired his grapple (after visually checking to make sure his fingers were firmly gripping it) and swung himself across the street and down an alley where he thought he'd seen movement. A quick check here, maybe a pass through the Botanical Gardens since Ivy sometimes got a little stir crazy in the winter months, then anything he happened across on his way home… he'd take care of his father's city and when he was finished the warm bed waiting for him would be all the sweeter because he deserved it.

* * *

Nightwing skidded through the ice and slush on the road outside the Bludhaven Museum of Art like he was trying to steal a base – though in this case, someone else had done the stealing and Nightwing was, in fact, sliding into _her,_ flowing fluidly back to his feet as soon as he'd sent her sprawling onto the sidewalk. She was the last of the gang of art thieves he was currently taking out; the art thieves that were _supposed_ to all be rounded up nice and quiet _indoors_ in the midst of their heist, not making a break for it into the cold, awful, _wet_ weather.

At least only one of them had made it out the doors. Not that that was any consolation to Nightwing's poor, frozen legs that were now dripping slush onto the back of the thief's head while Nightwing stood over her.

"Don't you wish you'd stayed inside where it was warm?" Nightwing asked cheerfully, bending to cuff her. He dragged the lady to her feet and started frog-marching her back toward the museum where she could join her friends – and where Nightwing could maybe towel off – when suddenly the rain stopped.

Nightwing looked up.

"Um—" was all he got out before two enormous paws grabbed him by the arms. Huge wings beat the air and Nightwing was hauled off the street and into the sky, his abductor emitting a bellowing _SKREEONK_ as he sped for the city limits.

The handcuffed art thief closed her mouth with a snap. She decided to follow Nightwing's suggestion and wait inside with her friends.

 

Goliath made really good time to Gotham, Nightwing reflected while dangling from the bat-dragon's paws. Goliath had somewhat consolidated his grip on him to put less strain on his arms, which Nightwing was grateful for since Goliath didn't seem to be inclined to take any of his other suggestions, like _stop_ or _put me down_. Electrocuting Goliath would probably be a bad idea, what with the ground so very far away, and Damian wasn't answering his com so Nightwing really had no choice but to hang on for a rather cold, wet ride.

Goliath deposited him on a rooftop in Newtown, not far from Amusement Mile. The rooftop already contained one other vigilante.

"Hood?" Nightwing asked. "What's going on?"

Red Hood had been crouched in the corner examining something on the surface of the roof as they'd approached. Now Nightwing could see it was a preteen-sized something, could see a bit of black and yellow, a bit of green. Goliath crashed onto the next-door rooftop and let out a mournful moan.

"Robin," Nightwing breathed, running to him and sliding to his knees, not noticing the cold at all this time. The slush was more ice than water here – it always seemed a few degrees colder in Gotham than in Bludhaven – but Nightwing wasn't paying attention to that now. Robin's eyes were closed and he was curled under his ice-crusted cape. "What happened?" Nightwing demanded, looking up at Red Hood.

"How the hell should I know?" Hood said, crossing his arms.

"You're _here_ , aren't you?"

"Hey, I was just out for an evening stroll—"

Nightwing let out a groan of frustration and turned back to Robin. Based on the ice accumulation he hadn't been here long, but he didn't look great. Nightwing pulled him into his arms and stood carefully, the roof slick under his boots. Robin was heavier than he'd been expecting, though – weighed down with a wet, ice-rimed cape – and he slid a little anyway. Red Hood put a steadying hand on his shoulder. When Nightwing gave him an eyebrow over it, Hood huffed and turned away.

"Why didn't Clifford the Big Red Bat just take him back to the Manor?" Red Hood groused.

"Robin probably told him to leave him alone when he's working in the city. Or maybe it's a standing order to go get me in case of an emergency. I don't know. Goliath!" Nightwing called. Goliath rumbled at him. "Can you take us back to the Cave?"

" _Skreeonk_!" said Goliath. He leapt for the rooftop they were standing on and gathered all three of them up in his massive arms, barely missing a beat before continuing into the air.

"Hey wait, not me!" Red Hood protested.

"Sorry, Hood, looks like you're coming with us," Nightwing said. He was still holding Robin and they were all pressed rather uncomfortably against Goliath's sodden fur.

"Whatever. Get your elbow out of my ribs."

"If I do that I think you'll land in the river."

Red Hood considered it for a moment. "Could probably survive that."

"Grayson?" Robin murmured, beginning to stir.

"Robin," Nightwing said. "Try not to move. We'll be home soon."

Robin's eyes cracked open. "Goliath?"

They could all feel Goliath's answering groan vibrating through his chest. Robin nodded once, then his eyes closed again.

"Hey, I'm here too," Red Hood grumbled. "I should at least get credit for having to put up with your pointy elbows."

Nightwing ignored him, focusing instead on how cold Robin felt against him. "What happened?" he asked again.

"I seriously don't know," Red Hood said. "I was just making a quick loop and I practically tripped over him. He was out cold. Then the bat dragon express showed up."

Goliath sped across the river and banked out toward the bay, swinging around to one of the Cave's larger entrances concealed by a rocky reef. There were a few tight turns and hold-your-breath squeezes, but he got them to the Cave proper eventually, and all three tumbled from his grasp.

Nightwing, still holding Robin against him, made straight for the infirmary.

"Okay, well, it's been real," Red Hood said, giving Goliath a little salute. "I'm stealing a bike."

"Jason, let Alfred know we're here," Nightwing said. "Tell him what happened."

Jason hovered between the stairs and the garage, then sighed and went to the stairs. He dropped his helmet and his coat on a bench near the showers first and grabbed a towel before heading up.

Dick peeled off his gloves; his fingers were too cold to work the clasps of Robin's uniform with them on. As it was he fumbled a few times before finally getting Damian out of his freezing suit. He wrapped him in two blankets and then shoved some heat packs between the layers. Damian gave a little shiver, then, and opened his eyes again.

"Grayson," he said.

"Hey, Damian."

"I feel as though a camel sat on my head."

"That's probably not what happened."

"Tell me the truth. How bad is it?" Damian asked, looking Dick directly in the eye.

"How bad?"

"How many fingers and toes will I lose?"

Dick grinned. "You're not quite that far gone, little D. All fingers and toes bright red and accounted for."

"Ah. Good," Damian said. He began to cough, a horrible raw sound, and huddled further down in his blanket cocoon.

"Oh dear," Alfred said, following Jason back downstairs. "Let me see." He nudged Dick aside and felt Damian's forehead, which was the only part of him still visible. "Ah. Tea with honey, I think, Master Damian, and then bed."

"I do not—" Whatever Damian had been going to say was interrupted by another fit of coughing. They all exchanged looks waiting for it to pass. When it did, Damian collapsed back to the cot. "Very well."

Dick's eyebrows went up. That, more than anything, indicated how Damian was feeling. "Indeed. Master Dick, if you would be so kind as to help Master Damian upstairs?" Dick grinned and levered his arms under the Damian burrito to scoop him up.

"Unhand me, Grayson, I am perfectly capable of walking!"

"Yeah, but you're naked, and all the warm clothes are upstairs."

"I'm—" Damian flushed as he realized that what Dick had said was true. "Fine. You may proceed. But I shall not forget this indignity."

"You too, Master Jason," Alfred said, snagging Jason by the collar as he attempted to creep away toward the bikes.

"Oh, come on, I'm not even supposed to be here," Jason said.

"It is sleeting outside. You are not going anywhere, and especially not on a motorbike."

"I could steal the Batmobile instead," Jason said hopefully.

"Upstairs. Tea. Bed."

Jason gave in and followed Dick back upstairs. Alfred nodded, satisfied, then glanced over at Goliath, who gave him an inquiring _prrrl?_ Alfred inclined his head to him. "Yes, yes. Good bat dragon. You'll find fresh bedding and food with Batcow. If you must shake off, kindly do it in one of the lower caves."

Goliath grumbled his agreement and made his way to the larger caves while Alfred continued upstairs.

* * *

Damian was _embarrassed_. He would never admit it, of course, but succumbing to the cold and his own weariness… yes, definitely embarrassing. None of the others seemed to hold it against him, of course. Dick just said, "Everyone gets sick," which was doubtless well-meaning, but not everyone who got sick needed to be _rescued_.

Because he believed in suffering when you made a mistake, Damian mentally replayed the events of last evening. He had just completed his intended rounds – no action, nothing from Poison Ivy at the Botanical Gardens, not even any petty thievery in the surrounding neighborhoods – and had been on his way back when the exhaustion he'd been staving off had suddenly overtaken him. He probably should have admitted he was tired and cold and suffering at that point, but he'd pushed harder for it until finally just pausing for a short rest on a rooftop and… well, here he was under careful watch, benched until he recovered.

And now he'd slept half the day away, though apparently being awake wouldn't have made much difference since he appeared to be under guard by _Jason Todd_ of all people. Damian had woken to find him there, sitting in one of Damian's chairs, feet propped on Damian's bed, reading _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_.

Damian scoffed and threw back his covers so they draped over Jason's feet, fully intending on leaving despite the fact that his throat felt swollen, he was shivering a little under his warm pajamas, his head ached, and one of his nostrils was completely blocked while the other seemed determined to leak the entire fluid content of his body onto his upper lip.

Jason flung the covers right back over him. "Stay put, half pint."

"Excuse me?"

"Doctor's orders. You're supposed to put all your energy into getting better."

"I _am_ better," Damian tried to say; his body betrayed him two syllables in with a cough that would not cease. Jason turned a page calmly. Damian collapsed back against his pillows and drew a deep, careful breath when he could. "All right. I am not better. But I am going down to the infirmary. Surely we have a cure."

"There's no cure for the common cold, kid."

"This is an _un_ common cold."

"It's really not, but there's no cure for those either." He turned another page, not even raising his eyes from the book.

"Then someone isn't trying hard enough." Damian shoved off the blankets again and went to swing his legs out of bed, only to find Jason standing directly in his way. Damian frowned and scooted down the bed to go around him. Jason followed. Damian glared up at him and Jason met his eyes. They had a staring contest for a few moments before Damian burst into action, diving for the foot of the bed.

Jason caught him around the middle and held him suspended in the air.

"Let me go, Todd! I am going to fling myself into the nearest Lazarus Pit and be done with it!"

Jason tossed him back against his pillows. "That's a pretty dumb idea, even for you. And if you think I won't strap you to this bed just because you're sick, you would be wrong."

Damian believed him. He crossed his arms and subsided, sinking back down into the bed, his brief burst of energy leaving him distressingly tired. He groaned, not really meaning to but not really able to help it since he was having to do most of his breathing through his mouth. Jason threw the blankets over him.

"If you'd just relax, Alfred wouldn't have had to ask me to babysit while he ran errands."

"Where is Grayson?"

"Went back to Bludhaven this morning. Something about making sure the city doesn't think Nightwing's been abducted by alien bats. Cass is at ballet practice, Duke and Babs have class, and Tim said he's not coming within a mile of the manor until it's been sanitized. Sorry kid, you're stuck with me."

Damian peered at him suspiciously. "Why _are_ you consenting to be party to this… this coddling? I should think you'd have better things to do."

"Alfred's making you soup. He said I could have some if I stopped you from escaping."

"You are not sick. Why would you require soup?"

Jason stared at him like he'd said something incredibly stupid. "It's good soup, Damian."

Damian scowled and yanked the blankets up to his chin. He lay back and closed his eyes, then turned onto his side. Then onto his other side. Breathing wasn't any easier in one direction or the other. Jason settled back into the chair and continued to read, to all appearances completely ignoring Damian.

"If you must persist in this," Damian said finally. "You could at least read out loud."

Jason gave a quiet little laugh that was barely more than an exhale, his eyes not leaving the page. " _'Let them burn,' she said. 'Let them have a taste of eternity,'_ " he read aloud. " _Turning to her cousin, who had averted his eyes, she added, 'You see, Mr. Collins…God has no mercy. And neither must we.'_ "

Damian sighed and closed his eyes. Perhaps being sick could stand for just a bit longer.

* * *

"I swear to God if you don't answer your phone, dickhead— that better be you calling me right now," Jason hissed into his phone. He checked the display and hung up on Dick's voicemail to answer. "Dick, finally."

"What's wrong, Jay?"

"You need to get to the manor and take care of Typhoid Mary."

"Damian? Is he okay?" Dick asked.

"He has the fucking plague, so now _I_ have the fucking plague and it's your fault so you need to get over here and fix it."

"You want me to come out there and take care of you both?" Dick was clearly amused.

"I need you to get out here and take some Damian-watching hours for me before Alfred realizes I'm sick."

"Wait, have you been taking care of Damian?"

"I've just been helping Alfred out a little because the kids are all busy covering for B and if the next words out of your mouth are commentary on how adorable that is or some bullshit like that I promise I will rub Damian's snot on you the next time I see you."

"This isn't particularly good incentive for me to come out there, Jay," Dick said, though Jason could hear an engine start over the line.

"Shut up, you're already on your way. I'm going to go recover in peace." He hung up and crept out of the library where he'd been lurking to make the phone call. He wasn't horribly sick yet, not like Damian was, but he could feel it coming: a little tickle in the back of his throat, a little congestion, a little dip in his energy. He'd go to ground and drown himself in orange juice and chicken soup and bounce back with no one the wiser.

He'd just cracked open the clock to sneak down to the cave when the door to the study opened.

"Ah, Master Jason, there you are."

Jason straightened and turned, willing himself not to sneeze or cough. "Hey, Alfred. What's up?"

Alfred took in his coat and the open clock. "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah, I gotta take care of some stuff."

"Indeed? If you'll pause just a moment, I will fetch a container of soup for you, as promised."

"Oh, sure, that'd be—" Jason cut himself off with a small strangled noise as a cough tried to rasp its way out of his throat. Alfred looked at him sharply. Jason cleared his throat as casually as he could. "That'd be great, thanks."

"You sound a tad congested," Alfred said. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yeah, of course, it's just allergies," Jason said. Alfred's eyes narrowed and he crossed the room to lay a hand over Jason's forehead. "Aw, come on Alf, I'm not—" Jason turned away just in time to direct a massive sneeze away from Alfred's face. He shoved the back of his hand against his nose, trying to stop it from dripping or at least stop Alfred from seeing it.

No such luck. "It would appear you have caught Master Damian's cold," Alfred said.

"Couldn't have. It's only been a day or two," Jason said.

"You don't have allergies, Master Jason."

"Huh. Must be psychosomatic."

Alfred sighed deeply. "I suppose I cannot force you to take care of yourself," he said mournfully. "I suppose, if you must, you can go to whatever lonely location you call home even if it worries me to no end."

"Hey, now—"

"Even if I know you will not call to check in, and even if I will fret constantly over whether you are safe or bleeding to death in some alley because your reflexes were just a little too slow. Even given all of that, I suppose if you must go, you must."

"Look, you don't need another sack of germs in this house."

"As you say, sir." Alfred stepped away and swept his arm at the clock. "By all means, proceed. I quite understand."

Jason shoved the clock open further. "It's not— I'm fine, I don't even feel sick."

"I'm sure you don't need to justify yourself to me, Master Jason."

"Right. Okay, then. Bye," he said, slipping through the opening behind the clock.

He heard Alfred sigh again behind him and stopped just long enough for the cough he'd been suppressing to tear its way out. Once he'd started he couldn't stop for nearly a minute. When he finally did, his eyes were watering. He took a careful, slow breath and stepped back out of the clock.

Alfred, of course, was still standing there, but now he was holding a box of tissues. "It's because you sniffle rather than blowing," he said, with one eyebrow arched.

"Right," Jason said. "I was just thinking, if this thing really is this contagious it would probably be irresponsible to take it out into the city."

"Indeed."

"And since I'm not really that sick, you could still use the help around here."

"Most assuredly."

"I'll just stay until Dick gets here, and then I'm going to go."

"A good plan."

"Yeah," Jason said. He and Alfred eyed each other for a moment, and then Jason sighed and left the study to go hang his coat back up.

 

Dick arrived only an hour later, but by that time Jason had devolved into sweatpants and his own personal box of tissues that now lived with him on the couch in the library.

"Thought you were going home," Dick said.

"Oh, God, Dick, get out while you still can," Jason said, only it sounded like _ged owd wall you sdill cab._

"Wow, you sound awful."

"I _feel_ awful. Seriously, this thing is so contagious. I caught Duke sniffling a minute ago. My nose feels like it's going to fall off." Jason was prone on the couch, one arm dangling listlessly, staring straight up at the ceiling while he delivered this proclamation. _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_ lay open on the ground next to the couch, spine to the air.

"Okay, drama queen," Dick said, coming to stand over Jason and peer down at him.

"Don't breathe my air, idiot. You will _die_."

"I don't get sick, Jay. Clean living, you know," Dick said with a grin that practically sparkled.

Jason just groaned and rolled onto his side. "Can't banter. Only suffering."

Dick shook his head and went to check in with Alfred to see where he was most needed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

As his plane approached Gotham, Batman checked the city for any hotspots. It was habit after returning from a mission abroad; as long as he wasn't in need of any dire supplies or medical attention, he'd make a pass over the city just in case.

Gotham was cold and damp, as usual, but at least it wasn't actively snowing or raining. The police scanner turned up some run-of-the-mill hits, nothing the police couldn't handle on their own. He checked for any of his kids' homing signals – officially these were only used if it was suspected they were in trouble, but it didn't hurt to just check on them every so often, especially when he'd been gone and out of contact for a while.

Red Robin's beacon shone out from the financial district. Everyone else was inactive.

Strange. It wasn't that late. Why would only Red Robin be out tonight? Especially when there was a Wayne Enterprises investor meeting the next morning. Batman twitched the controls and directed the plane toward the financial district.

 

Red Robin put down the last of the smugglers with a precise jab from his staff, leaving five of them in total groaning on the ground. He secured them, notified the police that they'd find evidence regarding a smuggling ring operating through Blackgate at this location, and then hauled himself up to the rooftops, too tired to even make any sarcastic remarks in the criminals' direction. He knew he was pushing it when he had to focus so much on his movements that he couldn't manage to talk at the same time. That was fine. He'd scheduled a nap for tomorrow afternoon. He could make it until then.

Next stop was Gotham University to look into some suspicious electromagnetic activity coming from one of the labs there. Probably just an overeager grad student logging odd hours, but also possibly a supervillain in the making. It was across town and Red Robin didn't think he had all that many swings left in him, so he started looking for a train. The blue line should be passing by before too long. He could catch it if he hurried over to the stock exchange building.

He turned to go and ran into Batman's chest.

Red Robin recovered quickly, springing backward and bringing the staff up before he realized just who he had run into. Batman watched him realize, relax, and then inexplicably stiffen again.

"Did you just get back?" Red Robin asked.

"Yes," Batman said.

"Have you been to the manor yet?"

"No."

Red Robin sagged a little. "Good."

"Why?" Batman asked. "Is something wrong? Why are you covering the whole city on your own?"

Red Robin gave a slightly desperate laugh. "Everyone's out of commission."

Batman felt a frisson of fear electrify his spine. "Explain."

"They're all sick. Some kind of cold. Robin caught it, and then Red Hood, and then Nightwing came to help Agent A take care of them and _both_ of them caught it, and then Spoiler came over to bring get-well balloons and _she_ caught it, and Signal and Black Bat never stood a chance and it's just me and Oracle out here now!"

Batman estimated it had been at least seventy hours since Red Robin had properly slept, based on the speed at which he was talking and the way his voice had gotten a little high and hysterical.

"And you…" Batman said.

"Know proper quarantine procedure!" Red Robin snapped with a small flail of his arm. "I haven't set foot in the manor since Robin got sick. Don’t worry, I've been Skyping in to check up on them." Inexplicably, he lowered himself to the rooftop as he said this, sitting and leaning against the little ledge surrounding it.

"Red Robin?"

"Now that you're back I'm just gonna take a little break. Just real quick," he said. His sit turned to a slump. He slid his lower body out and twisted a bit to rest his arms on the ledge before lowering his head to them.

Batman knelt next to him hurriedly. Once Red Robin started to crash it was sometimes hard to get anything coherent out of him for hours or, in one extreme case, a day and a half. "Red Robin. Listen to me. I need you to stay alert for just a few more minutes."

"I'm alert," he said sleepily.

"Case notes, Red Robin. What needs to be done in the next forty-eight hours?"

Red Robin snapped up. "The investors meeting!"

"They can manage without you. What about tonight? What are you working on?"

"Oh. Yeah." Red Robin shook his head, trying to clear it. "Here. Itinerary. Open leads." He tapped the computer built into his gauntlet. Batman held out his hand for a memory stick, but Red Robin grinned at him. "Wait wait wait, I want to try this new thing. Like this," he said, holding up his hand in a fist. Batman mimicked him obligingly and Red Robin knocked his fist against Batman's. "Fist bump data transfer. Ha. Check your files."

Sure enough, Red Robin's open cases and leads files appeared in Batman's cowl HUD. "When did you develop this?"

"This morning. I… really need to sleep."

"Go ahead," Batman said.

Red Robin slumped back over. Batman pulled him forward carefully, settling him over his shoulder. He summoned the plane down from the cloud cover and took Red Robin back to his apartment. On the way, he pulled up a copy of the quarantine procedures and added an appendix codifying the importance of maintaining one's own health while outside of quarantine, particularly if the entire rest of the team was compromised, and including some indicators of when it might be preferable to prioritize certain action items rather than exhausting oneself handling the workload of ten people alone.

He bumped his fist gently against Red Robin's to transfer the file, flagged for his review, before lifting him again and letting a line out from the plane to lower them both to his apartment, where he removed the harder pieces of Tim's armor and tucked him into bed.

 

Even if Batman had not had a report from Red Robin before returning to the Cave, he would have known something was wrong immediately upon landing. The Cave was entirely empty and quiet. That almost never happened; usually _someone_ would be coming or going or training, or at the very least Alfred would have appeared upon being alerted to the return of the plane.

Batman shed the cape and cowl hastily, pulling on whatever casual clothing was most readily available, and went upstairs. Red Robin had _said_ everyone was fine, but Bruce had the sudden urgent need to set eyes on his family himself.

The manor, too, was quiet, though that was less unusual. Even when everyone was in residence, rooms were spread out enough that it could still feel somewhat empty. Bruce didn't encounter anyone in the study or the hall, so he headed upstairs, keeping in mind that Red Robin had reported that Alfred had caught this cold, too. Alfred was so rarely sick, it really must be a particularly vicious strain.

Bruce tapped softly at Alfred's door before poking his head in. The room was lit in soft yellow light from the bedside lamp. Alfred was asleep and Cass was curled in a chair by his bed with headphones on. She plucked them off when she saw Bruce and gave him a little wave. He went to her and spoke softly.

"How are you?"

She shrugged. "Okay."

"Not sick?"

She shook her head and grinned at him. "Too strong."

"I see. And Alfred?"

"So much…" Cass' tongue went between her teeth and she looked up for a moment, trying to think of the word. "…Nyquil."

Bruce stifled his laugh and Cass smiled. "All right," Bruce said. "You're taking care of him?"

She nodded.

"And you're sure you're okay?"

Another nod.

"Good. Get some rest soon though, okay?"

She waved him off with a careless flutter of her hand. Bruce touched her shoulder affectionately and turned to go.

Then there were two small, suppressed sneezes in quick succession.

Bruce turned back, but Cass showed no sign of having so much as twitched. She cocked her head at him, then turned very seriously to the still sound-asleep Alfred and said, "Bless you."

"Hm," Bruce said. He went back to her and bent, brushing her hair aside and pressing his lips to her forehead. "You're warm. Go to bed."

"Not," Cass said as Bruce straightened. "No fever with this cold."

"So you admit you have a cold."

Cass opened her mouth, then shut it again and twisted it into a grimace. "Did not."

Bruce plucked a tissue from the box by Alfred's bedside. "Blow." Cass obliged with a roll of her eyes, but as soon as she cleared her nose she began coughing. Bruce deposited the used tissue on the tray containing the dishes and Alfred's own tissue collection. "Nyquil sleep doesn't require a vigil, Cassandra. Go to bed," he ordered.

She sighed and pushed herself out of the chair, trudging out of the room. No wonder she hadn't stood to hug him when he came in; he could see the moment she moved how drained she must be feeling, even if she was hardly presenting other symptoms.

Bruce bid a quiet goodnight to Alfred, turned off the lamp, and collected the tray to take it downstairs. He left the dishes in the kitchen and had just washed his hands when he heard the distinct sound of someone trying very hard to open the library door without making any noise.

He padded out through the dining room and into the hall and found Jason very slowly easing the front door open.

"Jason?"

"Nothing!" Jason said, spinning so his back was to the door. "Oh. Hey Bruce. You're back."

"You thought I was Alfred," Bruce surmised. "I assume he guilted you into staying here while you were sick and now you're feeling…" He cocked his head and considered Jason's not-quite-ready-to-run stance. "Hm, not smothered. A burden? Since everyone else in the house is sick, too, and I'll bet you're all trying to take care of each other."

Jason blinked blearily at him. "Yeah I'm way too sick for this bullshit, that's for sure." He turned for the door again.

"Jason," Bruce said.

"What?"

"Are you going to _walk_ to the city? You don't have a vehicle parked out there."

"Maybe I called a Lyft."

"Did you?"

Jason hesitated. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and peered at it. "Apparently not."

"Let me guess," Bruce said. "So much Nyquil?"

"Still too congested to sleep, but too drowsy to escape," Jason acknowledged, leaning against the door and knocking his head back against it in frustration. "I blame the Pit."

"Do you want _me_ to call you a Lyft?"

Jason rolled his head to the side to look at Bruce. "Aw. How sweet. No, I think I'll stick around and rub my germs all over your stuff. Since you're so eager to get rid of me." He shoved himself out of his lean, sniffling loudly as he shuffled past Bruce and up the stairs.

Bruce watched until Jason achieved the landing without mishap. Then he went to the library and swabbed down the doorknob. He picked up the book Jason had been reading, marked his place, and gently wiped down the cover as well.

 

Bruce prowled the hallways until he came across flickering light spilling out of a slightly ajar sitting room door. Pushing the door open the rest of the way, he found Duke inside, sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, playing Tetris on the sixty-four inch TV. He was doing incredibly poorly.

Bruce went in and sat next to him to watch for a few moments. "How are you feeling?" he asked when Duke's screen finally filled beyond repair and he had to start over.

"Awful," Duke said. "Woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."

Bruce watched the basic Tetris board fill up as Duke missed obvious shapes and slots. "Duke," Bruce said after watching six pieces get misaligned in a row. "I think you're… anticipating the game."

"How's that?" Duke asked, trying to jam a square into a single-column hole.

"Single vertical line will be three pieces ahead."

"Huh." Duke squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked rapidly a few times. " _Huh_. Thought it looked kind of weird."

"Good now?"

"Good. Thanks, Bruce. I—" Duke interrupted himself with a deep inhale and then sneezed with such force he curled forward over the controller in his hands. "Aw man," he said, eyeing the controller with some distaste.

"Here," Bruce said, pulling out a handkerchief. He took the controller from Duke, wiped it down, handed it back, and tucked the handkerchief away in his pocket. The Tetris board filled again.

"Probably better to start over anyway," Duke said. Then he blinked. "Hey, you're gonna get sick."

"Maybe."

"Don't give me that 'I never get sick' crap, that's what Dick said and now he's just as miserable as the rest of us."

"Hm."

Duke put the controller down and narrowed his eyes at Bruce. "That was a Batman hm."

"Hm."

"Fine, be that way. Too sick to care." The game started again and Bruce stood.

"Feel better, Duke," he said.

"I hope so."

 

Bruce turned his steps upstairs once more, thinking to do one last check on the bedrooms, make sure Jason and Cass had actually wound up in a bed, lay eyes on Damian and Dick, that sort of thing.

Jason, it turned out, had crashed in the room Tim usually used when he stayed over and Bruce was nearly certain that had been on purpose. Cass was in her own room across the hall. Both rooms were silent and dark, but down the hall there was a faint illumination coming from Dick's room and the sound of low voices. Bruce approached and paused at the door.

"…back to his apartment. He'll be fine." Babs' voice, coming through computer speakers. "Checked in on Steph this morning, she sounds awful but seems like she's in good spirits. I'm going to take her some more tea tomorrow, she mentioned she was burning through her stock."

"Risky, Babs," Dick said. He sounded even more congested than any of the others. "You and Tim are the only ones who haven't caught this thing. I wouldn't go near it."

"Hm, I guess if it took down even the great Dick Grayson I should watch out. I bet I could deliver it by drone," Babs said thoughtfully.

Bruce nudged the door open and Dick looked up. He was propped up against his bed's headboard, the computer in his lap.

"Hey Bruce," he said. "Welcome back." He had a tissue shoved up each nostril.

"Is Bruce there? Turn me around," Babs said. Dick obliged and Babs gave Bruce a wave.

"Welcome home," she said. "Tim okay?"

"Tim's fine. He crashed again. Probably a fourteen hour one this time. Speaking of which," Bruce said, looking pointedly at Dick. "It's late. You're sick. You should be asleep."

"Come on Bruce, I've been sleeping all day—"

"No he hasn't," Babs said. Dick spun the laptop back around and gave her a wounded puppy look that was only slightly less effective for the Kleenex hanging out of his nose.

"Traitor," he said.

"Good night, Barbara," Bruce said, coming around the bed and pressing the lid of the laptop gently closed.

"Hey," Dick protested when Bruce lifted the whole thing out of his lap and tucked it under his arm.

"Rest, Dick. Unless you want to be sick for longer."

"How did you make that sound like a threat?" Dick wondered. "It's not like you have any control over how sick I am. The tone, the timing… totally unnecessary."

"And take the Kleenex out before you sleep."

"Duh."

"Good night, Dick."

"Night, Bruce."

Bruce wasn't actually sure that Dick went to sleep after that but, well, there was only so much herding you could do after your kids hit a certain age. At least the lights were off and Bruce had his computer.

He carried it with him to his final stop of the evening, hoping against hope that Damian, at least, would be sensible and asleep.

His hopes were doomed, of course. Damian was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his floor, meditating. He didn't appear to be particularly focused, though, because his eyes snapped open as soon as Bruce appeared in his doorway.

"Father. You have returned."

"So they tell me. I hear you caught a cold."

Damian scowled. "I did not mean to."

"Well, you have it now, so you have to take care of it. Come on, into bed."

"Rest is doing nothing to cure me. It has been days and still it lingers. So I intend to cure myself with the power of my mind." Damian closed his eyes, his eyebrows knitted together in tension.

Bruce waited a few moments until the snot dripping from Damian's nose started to tickle enough that he first twitched, then wrinkled his upper lip, and then finally scrubbed his arm across his face with an alarming and sudden snuffling inhale.

Bruce sighed. "Blow, don't sniffle. I'm certain Alfred's told you this," he said, entering the room fully and plucking a tissue box from the bedside table. He dropped it in front of Damian.

"What is the difference? This infernal cold doesn't get any better no matter what I do."

"It'll run its course, and your throat will hurt less if you stop swallowing mucus."

Damian snatched a tissue from the box and held it gingerly to his nose, blowing into it weakly. Bruce looked a little closer. Damian's nose was red and raw.

Bruce went back out into the hall to one of the linen closets where Alfred kept first aid and bathroom supplies. He found a pot of Vaseline and brought it back to Damian's room.

"Here," he said, crouching in front of Damian. He opened the container, smeared some on a finger, and dabbed it gently under Damian's nose.

"What fresh indignity is this?" Damian griped, though he didn't pull away or try to bite Bruce's hand, so Bruce called that a victory.

"It'll make it feel better and stop it from getting worse. Put it on whenever it starts feeling dry," he said, handing the Vaseline over.

"Colds surely are not normally this high maintenance," Damian said.

"They definitely are," Bruce assured him.

Damian bristled. "That is absurd. My superior genetics should enable me to go out in any weather without becoming incapacitated. Perhaps Gotham's rain carries some unique property that has laid me low."

"Hm," Bruce said. "An interesting hypothesis."

"You believe me?"

"I believe that you believe your cold is unique. And I _know_ that your suspicion is something that can be tested."

Damian got to his feet. "The others insisted it was normal. Even Grayson! I have not been permitted in the Cave to conduct my own tests—"

"And you're not going to be permitted now. You _need_ to rest, Damian. Your body will heal itself, but only if you let it."

"But you said—"

"I'll run the tests. _If_ you promise to do your best to get better in the normal way in the meantime."

Damian folded his arms. "I can take care of myself."

"And in this case, that means doing everything you can to get better. Telling me your suspicions counts. Now let me take it from here."

In response, Damian stomped over to his desk and pulled open a drawer. There was a delicate clink of glass, and he turned with his hands full. "My samples." He held several small glass tubes containing various swabs out to Bruce. Bruce accepted them solemnly, then nodded toward the bed.

"Thank you. Now rest."

"You'll run the tests now?"

Bruce couldn't help a small smile. "Of course."

Damian grumbled but climbed into bed, jerking the covers up to his chin. Bruce tucked the box of tissues in with him.

 

Down in the Batcave, Bruce assembled his evidence: Alfred's and Cass' tissues, the swabs from the library doorknob and _Pride and Prejudice and Zombies_ , the handkerchief he'd used to clean off Duke's controller, Dick's laptop, and the samples Damian had given him. Then he got to work because, much as he loved his scathingly brilliant, highly trained, immensely competent children, it seemed not a single one of them realized that people couldn't get sick from being out in the rain, no matter how cold it was, and even if they did there was no way the symptoms would present and spread quite this quickly.

Well, Damian had suspected something, at least, even if it was for the wrong reasons, but he was in no shape to be pursuing it. Bruce would handle it now that he was home. _And quickly_ , he thought, feeling a small itch in the back of his throat.

* * *

Batman had not expected Ivy to have company. He crouched on her window ledge trying to decide whether finding two people rather than one in her bed significantly altered his planned approach. The fact that the other person was Harley Quinn gave him some pause, but he was in something of a hurry. He'd proceed, albeit with slightly more caution.

Before he could do so, though, Harley, having given no prior indication of being awake, sat up with a sudden shriek. "It's a peepin' bat!" she exclaimed.

It was a rather more delighted shriek than people usually let out upon finding Batman looming in their window, but that was Harley for you.

Ivy woke too, of course, and all the plant life in the apartment – potted ferns along the walls, English ivy threading the bed frame, succulents on every spare surface – came just a little bit more awake as well.

Batman slid the rest of the way in the window and stood with his hands visible. "Dr. Isley," he said, with a small incline of his head.

"Ooo, he called ya doctor," Harley said. She'd draped herself over Ivy's back, her chin resting on her shoulder. Both were wearing oversized t-shirts, their lower halves covered with blankets. "That means he wants somethin'." She pouted. "He never calls _me_ doctor."

"Close the window, Batman," Ivy said. "You're letting in the cold."

Batman hesitated just briefly before turning to close the window. He only half-turned to do it; he wasn't an idiot. But when he turned back, there was a giant hammer on the bed next to Harley. He ignored it.

"Have you been cultivating something new lately?" Batman asked. "In the Botanical Gardens, for example?"

"Why no, Batman," Ivy said, languidly brushing a few strands of vibrant hair behind her ear. Harley picked them up and started braiding them. "That would be a violation of my parole."

"This would be something that presents like the common cold, but about ten times more virulent."

Ivy's knees made a small mountain of the blankets and she crossed her arms over their peak, leaning forward to rest her chin on them and gaze up at Batman prettily. "Hypothetically?"

"Sure," Batman growled. "Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically, if I were experimenting with a sort of pollen that spread and reproduced like a virus, I would be wondering right about now if my cross-pollinating had accidentally produced a sterile specimen. Because my hypothetical plant should have produced spores for testing days ago. Hypothetically, I would be wondering if it _did_ produce spores after all, and if some Bat walked off with them before I could get to them. That _is_ the trouble with cultivating experimental plants in a public place."

"Yes. _That's_ the trouble," Batman said.

"Say, Bats," Harley said, gently extracting her own hair from where she'd braided it into Ivy's. "You sound a little hoarse. You comin' down with something?"

Ivy blinked slowly at him. "They would have been very _small_ spores, Batman. So small you might not even notice picking them up, say on your cape or on a glove. Bring that into contact with your skin, or disturb them enough to inhale… well. I expect you'd have a hypothetical cold on your hands."

Batman sighed. "The cure, Ivy."

"Whatever makes you think there is one?"

"Colds aren't lethal. This one is just particularly miserable. So you're not attempting to decimate humanity, and you don't usually go in for suffering for the sake of suffering. That leaves a hostage situation. The cold is the stick. You need a cure for a carrot."

"I don't think you can cure carrots, Bats. They're just an unfortunate fact of life," Harley said sagely.

"Like colds," Ivy said.

"Ivy," Batman growled. "Breaking into the Botanical Gardens, conducting experiments on the plants, planning to infect everyone in Gotham with head colds—"

"Oh, relax," Ivy said. She drew her legs out from under the covers and slid her feet into a pair of red and black checkered slippers. Her pajama pants were green plaid with a number of small Bulbasaurs chasing each other down the leg. Harley slid down under the covers into the warm spot Ivy had left and cuddled the hammer.

Ivy picked up a pad of paper and a pencil from the dresser and sketched something quickly before tearing the sheet off the pad and holding it out to Batman. Batman edged across the room to take it carefully, keeping both Harley and Ivy in his sightline.

"It's bright red," Ivy told him, moving back across the room and slipping back under the covers. Harley grumbled at her cold feet.

Batman looked at the drawing. It was a flower with a long, thick stem and several trumpet-shaped blossoms running the length.

"Blossoms about as big as your fist," Ivy added.

" _His_ fist?" Harley asked sleepily.

"Oh. No, I suppose not. About as big as _my_ fist," Ivy amended. Harley's arm came out from under the covers so she could shake a fist at Batman. When she pulled it back, it ended up draped across Ivy, Harley snuggling to her side.

"And this flower is the cure?" Batman asked. "The petals? The leaves?"

"Batman, if you grind up that flower you'll get nothing but disgusting paste and a rather angry visit from me," Ivy said crossly. Harley was slowly drawing her further under the covers, like a small octopus determined to be the big spoon. "Just keep it near you while you sleep. You do sleep, don't you?" she yawned.

"So the plan was to get one of these in every bedroom in Gotham?" Batman asked, eyes narrowed. "What happens when people fall asleep, Ivy?"

"I notice you ain't _doctor_ no more," Harley murmured.

Ivy sighed. "Nothing. No grand plan, Batman. It really was just research into plants' natural adaptations to humans. Helped along a bit, of course. For science."

"And the plant that caused this in the first place? How many of those are hidden in the Botanical Gardens?"

"I only had the one," Ivy assured him. "Looks just like velvetleaf."

"Of course you know what a velvetleaf looks like, dontcha Bats?" Harley asked, grinning at him from over Ivy's shoulder since Ivy was now completely horizontal.

"Don't hurt it," Ivy said. "I can pick it up tomorrow."

"And if I were to need… more than one of the red one?"

The corners of Ivy's eyes crinkled. "I think you'll find they propagate quite quickly with a little care."

Well that was concerning. "Ivy," Batman said. "This public experimentation thing. It isn't okay."

Ivy sighed heavily and shoved herself back up. Harley shot Batman a murderous look. "I wasn't intending to experiment _on_ the public. I was going to harvest the – hypothetical, of course – spores before the Gardens opened oh, almost a week ago. It's not my fault you stumbled into it at exactly the wrong time, after it had reproduced and before I could get to it. It's not like I have a ton of resources. Ex-con here, you know?"

"I know," Batman said. "Not experimenting at all is better than being back in Arkham, though. Which is where you'll end up if you keep doing things like this."

"Hey, don't threaten my girlfriend!" Harley said, shooting upright.

"It's not a threat. It's advice. Keep your experiments to yourself. And I will be checking in."

"Okay, _that_ was a threat," Harley said with narrowed eyes. "Why don't you move along, ya creep. Before we call the cops about yer breakin' an enterin'!"

Batman fixed them both with a stern stare before sliding the window open to leave. He had one foot on the sill when something occurred to him. "Harley," he said, turning back slightly. "When did you get out of Arkham?"

"Oh. Uh. I'm… kinda still there. Oops?" She ducked under the covers. "You didn't see nothin'!"

Batman sighed yet again. "Stay out of trouble." And he took off, careful to close the window behind him.

 

He studied both plants, of course, before doing anything. And, of course, he tested the effects of the red one on himself first. After a night spent with it in the same room, the burgeoning itch in his throat was completely quashed. He felt fine, and there was no relapse when he removed the plant from his vicinity. Dick gave him baleful looks as he stayed in arm's reach of half a dozen sick people and appeared no worse for the wear.

During this time, Tim woke up. Bruce knew he'd woken up because he'd sent back an edited copy of the quarantine procedures with a correction in red where Bruce had committed a comma splice. Bruce interpreted this as "I see what you're saying but I refuse to admit you have a point."

Ivy hadn't been lying about the plant's growth rate. The cuttings sprouted and rooted at the same rate the "cold" had spread, so it was only a few days later that Bruce was able to begin potting and distributing them. He'd left the original plant in Alfred's room last night. Damian had watched him do so suspiciously, but Bruce had only told him the tests were inconclusive when he'd asked so as to keep him following the strict regimen of rest and fluids until Bruce could get him a plant of his own.

He was tempted to gather his entire family into one room and lock them in with the single mature plant, but his tests had shown that the plant "cured" the cold by attacking the spores lodged in the lungs of the victims with spores of its own. The red plant's pollen would then dissolve harmlessly on its own, any remnants being coughed out with the last of the mucus from the cold. But concentration of pollen was key; one plant couldn't handle a roomful of people, at least not quickly.

So, the cuttings. Leaving them throughout the manor was easy enough, which just left paying a visit to Stephanie in the city.

Bruce decided to let himself into her apartment rather than knock and force her to come to the door when she was sick. She'd used a deadbolt though, and while Bruce appreciated her attention to security, it did make trying to be considerate a little more difficult. He went around the side of the building, up the fire escape, and disabled her window locks instead.

This turned out to be a mistake.

"You picked the wrong— oh shit Bruce," Steph said, pulling her swing at the last second. Bruce ducked anyway and the baseball bat flailed through the air where he'd been since she hadn't quite had the strength to reverse her strike. He rose smoothly and handed the small red flower in its unassuming plastic pot out to her. "Uh. You brought me a plant?"

"You're sick."

"You broke in through my window to bring me a get-well plant."

"You brought balloons."

"Yes. That's the kind of thing I do. I'm a balloon-bringing type of person," Stephanie said. She still had not taken the plant from him. She had the baseball bat on her shoulder and was eyeing him with distrust, in fact. Like everyone else, her nose was red and raw-looking, and her voice was a little thick, like she was constantly trying to swallow while speaking. "But you," she went on. "Are not a plant-bringing type of person, so what gives?"

"Your cold was artificially produced. This will cure it."

She stared at him. "Well, that's Gotham." She took the plant and immediately held it to her nose to smell it. "This smells like exactly nothing."

"It's designed to be inoffensive so people will keep it close."

"Cool. Is it going to grow fangs or poison me?"

"No. Let me know if it does, though," Bruce said, turning to go back out the window.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. Hey Bruce," she called after him as he left. "Does it come in purple?"

He didn't answer, but that had been expected. Steph put the plant on her table and texted Babs and Cass to get actual details about this latest oddity.

 

The manor slowly returned to normal over the course of the next few days, which meant it was first a bit noisier as everyone recovered their energy, and then quite a bit quieter as everyone dispersed. Jason took off as soon as he was able, and he took the plant with him; Dick was away not too long after, eager to get back to Bludhaven. He left his plant behind, saying that no plant deserved a life in his apartment, especially not when it had been as helpful as this one had been. Duke went back to his regular routine of classes and daytime adventures and while Cass stayed closer to home most of the time, it wasn't like she and Alfred were tap dancing down the halls.

Damian had returned his plant to the Cave once he was well, regarding it with extreme suspicion. Bruce didn't blame him; he had collected Cass, Duke, Alfred, and Stephanie's plants as well and planned a prolonged study, just in case of any hidden side effects. He'd recommend Jason bring his back, too, but he suspected he was running his own tests and wouldn't give up the specimen.

Once the sneezing and coughing had stopped everyone had treated the ordeal with the same mix of resignation and exasperation that became habit when you were a Gotham-raised vigilante. Bruce was getting ready to close the case file when Damian let his footsteps on the Cave stairs be heard.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked without turning from the computer.

"Fine, of course. You do not need to ask every time you see me. I am well." He approached and stood at Bruce's elbow while Bruce filled in a few last details on the file's timeline. "So," he said presently. "I was right."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You were _partially_ right."

"The illness was unnatural. I was right to be suspicious and the others were wrong to keep me from pursuing that line of investigation."

Bruce turned the chair to face Damian. "The illness was unnatural, yes. And you should have turned your suspicions and samples over to Red Robin, per quarantine protocol: if you suspect poisoning or drugging, you hand the case to an unaffected member of the team, acknowledging that your perception of the situation may be compromised."

"Still," Damian huffed. "I could have— helped. At least."

"Ah," Bruce said. "I see."

"See what? No you don't," Damian said. "Never mind. I came down to train. I have been idle for over a week and must regain my edge." He turned on his heel and stalked to the training mats to begin stretching.

Bruce followed him after a moment and began to warm up as well. "Damian, if you're thinking this miniature epidemic was your fault—"

"It _was_ ," Damian snapped. "I was caught unaware. It will not happen again."

"No one could have avoided the spores; you were in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time," Bruce said, sitting on the ground to stretch his legs.

Damian scoffed.

"But," Bruce said. "I do want to talk about _why_ you were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Damian threw an arm across his chest, pushing against it with the other, then repeated the stretch in reverse. He didn't answer.

"You were investigating the Botanical Gardens because you thought Ivy might be planning something. What would you have done if you'd actually run into her? Alone, with no one knowing your planned route that night?"

"I would have handled it."

"It's okay to ask for help, Damian. It's good that you push yourself, but that's also the point of having allies. We make each other stronger."

" _You_ would not have needed help," Damian said.

Bruce looked up at him curiously from the floor. "There's a reason I'm on the Justice League."

"Because they need you," Damian said sourly.

"It goes both ways. Superman saved my life twice on this last mission," he said. "And the next time some magic user comes around, or someone gets a hold of some kryptonite, I'll save his. Also, you're thirteen. You don't need to compare yourself to me just yet." Bruce got a sly glint in his eye as Damian turned away from him. "You have a ways to go."

"Excuse me?" Damian demanded, whipping back. "I demand you justify your underestimation of me this instant."

Bruce nodded and stuck out a hand. Damian hesitated only a moment before grasping his wrist and giving him a hand up he didn't really need. "Good. We'll spar. I want to make sure you're at a hundred percent before we go back out."

"You will find me more than capable," Damian said, but it lacked heat, like he wasn't sure whether he was being teased.

"Will I?" Bruce said, beckoning Damian to the center of the mats. Damian was still moving a little slowly, reflexes just a touch dulled from his long period of enforced inactivity. "We'll see. How about this: if you win, you're free from chores for a month and have your pick of patrols."

"And if I lose?" Damian asked with narrowed eyes.

"If you lose, I think you'll need to spend next winter training with the Teen Titans," Bruce said sternly.

"In San Francisco?" Damian asked. He did _not_ say 'Where it's actually a reasonable temperature in December?' but Bruce heard it anyway. "I… suppose that would be acceptable." Damian wasn't entirely successful at quashing the smile that threatened to spread across his face.

"Somehow I thought that might be the case. All right, then. Let's go."

And they did.

 


End file.
